Eidolon
by Pes Anserinus
Summary: Her DNA matched a high profile case from years ago. Officially, she was already dead. But as he took pause outside Mac's office in bewilderment, he realized that it was impossible. Unless, of course, she was a ghost.
1. Chapter 1

_**Note:**_ _Characters aren't mine; they belong to several people I will likely never meet. I'm just borrowing them with the acknowledgment that they'll be put back on their respective shelves relatively unscathed. Consider yourself disclaimed for this, and any subsequent chapter hereafter._

_**Eidolon**_

**She** kneeled in front of the couch, the room lit solely by the vibrant flickering of a fire roaring in the corner. That fireplace was the sole selling point for this particular Manhattan apartment, something about the warmth it provided screamed _home_. Not to mention, the price for the tiny one bedroom abode was the cost of a large ranch where she came from. But any piece of Montana, however trivial, had been a welcome comfort in her transition to city life. After all, the winters back home were grueling, and the old fireplace her father maintained served to bring the family closer during the colder months. Settling down on the shag carpeted rug and burying her toes into the fibers, she set out to begin folding the laundry that she had put off for days now. The simple moments like this she had learned to cherish, for they allowed her some sense of normalcy in her otherwise hectic life.

Six pairs of slacks and several of her sweaters later, she came across a small, long sleeved tee-shirt bundled up with the rest of the clothes and had to stifle a bubble of laughter. The Dr. Seuss tee depicted a circus in well worn primary colors, McGurkus's circus to be exact, complete with the Zoom-a-Zoop Troupe. Lindsay smirked, recalling the owner's insistence that the shirt simply reminded one of the old proverbs about chickens and hatching, and the ills of excess. A complacent sigh and a quick look over her shoulder told her that things were going to be okay, not perfect, but okay nonetheless.

The shrill ring of her pager snapped her out of her silent reverie. That was the problem with being on call; apparently the city never sleeps. Hopping up to her feet and quickly silencing the beeping device, she began her trek toward the kitchen to return the page. A soft, though labored sigh, followed by a lonely arm drifting lazily off the side of the couch stopped her in her tracks, taking her attention off the task at hand for a moment. Lindsay cautiously returned the arm to its former place, careful not to disturb its slumbering owner. Pulling an old quilted blanket off the back of the couch, she properly tucked in the sleeping form with a soft kiss to the forehead. Meanwhile, silently praying that some peace would come after what they'd been through. Even so, something in her gut told her that it wasn't completely over yet.

Taking a deep breath, she phoned Mac, wondering where the night would take her.

_Earlier:_

**The** late afternoon bullpen was the usual hustle of energy. Phones ringing, suspects complaining, witnesses recounting stories... However, Detective Flack was oblivious to the routine commotion. Having just dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's concerning his latest case; he was in the midst of closing up shop early on Sunday for once. Eager to get to Armstrong's, down a cold one or two, and catch the last half of the Giants game, he quickly cleared off his desk, grabbed his coat and made a beeline for the door. No more than ten steps away from freedom and his bachelor's night off, he noticed a young woman near the entrance. Visibly shaken, yet trying to hide it, she seemed completely lost. She noticeably stiffened as people rushed by, yet remained somewhat invisible to the rest of the busy bullpen. His sense of duty had gotten the better of him, and figuring the game could wait a few more minutes, he offered some direction.

"Need some help, miss?"

Wordlessly, she handed him a piece of department issue paper, which, surprisingly had his name scrawled on it in a haphazard fashion. He deduced that she must have asked to speak to him by writing down the name at the front desk not five feet away, where visitors normally sign in.

"You're looking for him?" he uttered, slightly taken aback at this particular turn of events. She remained silent, but a closer look made the detective more unnerved. She was bundled up, which wasn't really the odd thing, considering it was nearly twenty below outdoors, with a wind chill. No, it was the way she continued to shiver, seemingly to the bone, despite the warmth inside. It wasn't the cold making her shake; he'd seen it in hundreds of suspects and victims alike. It was fear.

She affirmatively shook her head slowly, deliberately, and he took note that she obviously didn't recognize him by sight. Trying in earnest to speak, she managed a pained whisper, "I don't know who else to trust."

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the complete cancellation of his plans for the evening. Off came the overcoat, as he led the way toward an informal meeting room, offered her coffee, tea, or something to eat. She declined with a stunted "no, thanks."

Flack had dealt with hundreds of cases, but never had anyone singled him out as the only person that could be trusted. It thoroughly unsettled him for some reason, and he didn't know why. What he did know was that he couldn't place the girl, nor could he see much of her under the layers of winter wear. Something told him she preferred to remain hidden, barely noticeable. He also honed in on another peculiarity, in the way she spoke; it was as if she was compensating for an injury, for it sounded as if her jaw, cloaked behind a cherry colored scarf, had made no effort to move.

"Well, if you were looking for Detective Flack, you've unwittingly found him." He extended a hand by way of greeting, though she offered none of her own. "Care to clue me in here? You are?"

She looked around, behind her, acting quite paranoid. Post traumatic stress perhaps, Flack assumed. The girl acted as if she'd seen or done something, at this point he wasn't completely sure which. However, as she cautiously pulled off her gloves, hat, and scarf, his suspicions immediately turned to victim rather than suspect.

"Woah, wait a sec. What the hell happed to you?" he instinctively moved toward her to get a better look at her injuries. She tilted her head away, knowing that the left side of her face probably looked hideous by now; it had been a day or two. How long exactly, she didn't know for sure, which agitated her more than being attacked in the first place.

An artful mix of deep purple and blue studded her temple, cheek, and jaw line. She wouldn't have been surprised if the arch of her cheek had been crushed and her mandible dislocated by the blow. It hurt to speak, but when the detective began to call for EMS, she stopped him suddenly, with a worried "No, please. Wait."

Obviously in pain, and probably still in shock, something about the urgency in her voice and the odd circumstances surrounding this particular meeting made him ignore protocol for the moment and comply. She was scared, for her life. And what the detective didn't realize, that simply by sitting there, he had opened up the proverbial can of worms.

Yet the girl was surprisingly uncooperative for someone so anxious to find him. Most of what he could discern from the peculiar encounter was that someone had her convinced she was on top of a hit list. She didn't know where else to turn, however she obviously didn't have much faith in the justice system either. The seasoned detective tried his best unthreatening approach to elicit who she was referring to; however, she couldn't seem to explain much of anything. It was as if she wanted to talk, just didn't know how or where to begin, or if it was safe to. Fumbling for words, and composure, Flack started to wonder if he should write the girl off as mentally disturbed and call the paramedics anyway.

But then she asked for a pencil and a piece of paper.

What she drew for the detective stopped his heart for a second. She certainly had his full attention now.

Because he was still staring at the artistically depicted sketch, he didn't notice the girl on the verge of collapse, her adrenaline fading and the horrific ordeal finally completely catching up with her. A dull thud as she hit the ground shook him out of his internal state of astonishment and back into cop mode.

**Mac** met him at Trinity General, where Flack was seated outside a room in the emergency suite. He was rifling through what had been the contents of the vic's pockets, trying to get a sense of who she was. Hell, he'd take a name, any name at this point, just so he had some lead to follow.

"Where's the fire Don, you left a 9-1-1?"

"Mac, sorry to page you on your day off, but this girl," he spoke in soft, yet deliberate manner, using a thumb to gesture to the room behind him. He handed Taylor a newspaper clipping he'd found in her personal affects, amongst a bottle of Advil, a dated, well worn strip of pictures from a photo booth, and some loose change. The newspaper article described the Wilder drug bust, implicating the young detective as a hero of the day, "this is why she singled me out."

He took hold of the familiar newspaper clip, admitting openly, "I don't understand. What does this have to do with anything?"

Detective Flack continued, still hushed, "Look, I didn't get much from her, but a picture, they say it's worth..."

"A thousand words, yeah, yeah," he said, waving him on, "You're white as a ghost Don, what the hell is going on?"

He didn't know how else to explain, so he handed over the girl's drawing. It depicted a distinctly ornate Celtic cross, one he'd seen before and had less than fond memories of. The words _right anterior antebrachium_ were written hastily across the bottom of the paper, sealing in his suspicions. Mac's usual stoic expression soon mirrored the pallor that Flack had been portraying only moments ago. "This girl knows something, perhaps not even _what_ she knows. But if this is what we think it is, they don't play games."

Somehow the young lady was involved with, or had knowledge of the former Wilder clan, presumably way over her head.

Mac urged the detective to divulge everything he could, which admittedly was based more on observation than conversation. She didn't appear to be much older than in her early twenties, but her choice of descriptors on the paper made him assume that she was educated, likely in anatomy or medicine. She hadn't offered much by way of name, only that it was complicated. Either she was a part of witness protection, or she went by aliases on her own accord. One thing was certain however; whomever she was running from, she certainly didn't want to be found.

Mac was presented with a puzzle. And in lieu of any reliable witness testimony, he always turned to the pieces that made the puzzle solvable, the evidence. "Well, let's see what she can tell us then, what are we waiting for?"

"She's unconscious Mac, I don't think we'll be getting much out of her tonight."

"You'd be surprised," he smirked slightly, a coy sort of expression toying at the corners of his mouth, but never actually surfacing completely. He reached for the phone in his pocket and paged Stella.

_**Addendum: **__I'm new to this particular domain, but the show has been a favorite of mine for a while. Regardless, it has seemingly been ages since I tried my hand at a story, so your constructive criticism is always appreciated while I continue to reveal my plot._


	2. Chapter 2

**Simply **put, Stella was having a bad hair day. As luck would have it, the New York snow forecasted for the night turned out to be more of a sleet-rain mixture that sent a chill down her spine and a kink or two in her curls. It had been one of those winters, where the bone chilling cold made her keenly aware of every bump and bruise her body had withstood over the years. Her head hurt, her entire being ached, and she longed for nothing more than to curl up in bed and hibernate like a bear until spring.

Having someone there to keep her heart from freezing would be an added bonus.

Winter breeds seasonal depression. They go hand in hand, much like peanut butter and jam. And although her heart wouldn't completely trust another man in her life just yet, part of her longed to simply be held again, bringing some warmth back inside.

There weren't many times where she found herself actually wishing she had a partner; she had always been so fiercely independent to bother wasting time with silly, childish thoughts like that. Even so, as the frigid season reared its ugly head in full glory, she found herself thinking that it would have been nice to have someone around after the day she'd had... if for nothing else than to meet the cable guy.

A busted water heater, fuzzy television, and a dead battery in her department issue vehicle had just been the start to this particularly wonderful New York December day. And to think, in all reality, her evening shift was just beginning. The rain, she mused, was just icing on this precariously disastrous cake.

Perhaps it was the fact that there had been no trace of a sun's ray for a week now. It had to be. She inwardly despised this aspect of winter.

Pulling up to her destination, she prayed to whatever Greek God would hear her, please let the old cliché indeed be true. She couldn't take more than a triplet of bad luck right now, and if that was in store at this particular scene, it would likely push her far enough over an edge to scream, loudly, up at the sky.

To hell with hibernation, she mused. At this point, she'd settle for torpor.

Squelching any urge to completely lose her sanity in front of some of NYPD's finest, and making a mental note to hit a tanning booth for some much needed vitamin D, she quickly gathered her toolkit and made her way toward the crime scene. The flurry of activity exponentially intensified as she neared the scene, red and blue lights capturing her features in a rare light as day began its slow descent into night.

"Car bomb, pretty destructive," Angell motioned, "and the rain isn't helping us much. I've got men on that issue as we speak."

Several cadets were frantically trying to put together the large white tent that would eventually serve to shelter the scene from the elements while they worked into the night. Funny, Stella mused inwardly, the tent itself looked more apropos for a wedding than a funeral. As she continued her scan of the scene, gaining her bearings, she couldn't help but notice the fragments of the car's windshield and windows that littered the street, as the rain washed a dirty, diluted river of debris in between the larger shards of glass.

Sheldon walked up between the two detectives, filling in his superior that he hadn't yet had a chance to locate the detonation device, nor did he find any tangible evidence of a victim upon a cursory overview. However, from the pattern of explosion, it looked as though the backseat or the trunk was the target of the blast. Why blow up a car if there wasn't anything in it? Something wasn't right.

"Hey Hawkes, have you ever had one of those days, where everything that can go wrong..."

"Will." He finished for her, and gathering a pretty good idea of where she was going with the thought, he added, "Yeah. So Murphy, is that your way of asking me to tackle my way through the glass on the road?"

Stella laughed, Sheldon knew her well. Her mood lifted at the thought of not being completely isolated. She always had the unwavering camaraderie of her fellow analysts. Perhaps she really didn't need to hibernate the winter away after all.

With Hawkes tackling the debris, looking for traces of the explosive, she chose the relative safety of what was left of the skeletonized older model Chevrolet sedan. Deciding to start with what had presumably been the target of the bomb, her eye caught a funny stain on a remnant piece of carpeting that had lined the trunk and managed somehow to survive the blast. Using the traditionally more sensitive phenophthalein presumptive test for blood, the reagent reacted with traces of ferric iron within the stain, causing her swab to turn pink.

"Hawkes," she yelled over the patter of the rain on the now erect tent's roof, "you might want to re-think that victimless scenario." He looked back at her with a furrowed brow, indicating complete and utter confusion. After all, there wasn't a body in sight. Lifting up the positive test result, she continued simply, "We have blood, unless of course someone dumped some horseradish peroxidase in the trunk just to frustrate me."

"My bet's on the former," he yelled back, smiling at her find, "how many people actually drink horseradish juice anyway?" She laughed at his rhetorical inquiry, turning her attention back to work.

But before she could investigate further, her cell phone began an incessant jingle. Making a mental note to change the hideous tone later on, she quickly transferred the evidence to one hand while using the other to deftly flip open the phone.

Surprised to hear from her boss on his day off, she immediately made a quip about the equivalent nature of sleep deprivation and a drunken stupor. The register in his voice, however, lead her to believe something had unsettled him. She quickly switched gears into sincerity, listening to his vague account of a girl at the hospital in need of being processed ASAP. He had disregarded her inquiry for more details on the case, and she didn't quite understand the urgency in his voice, but she hadn't the heart to give him hell about it now.

Inwardly groaning at researchers across America for having yet to come up with a plausible way to teleport, she responded apologetically to Mac's plea for a seemingly covert op. Curious as it all seemed; she chose not to push for a better explanation, yet.

"Mac, I'm sorry, I am up to my ears in a car bombing at the other end of town, and can't be there for at least another several hours. But a certain country bumpkin with an eye for detail owes me a favor..."

She felt a slight twinge of guilt at pushing the matter off to another detective, especially when Mac seemed to be seeking her out specifically. She chose not to dwell too much on it though, turning her attention back to the blood stain in the car.

After all, even Wonder Woman couldn't be in two places at once.

**On** the other side of the city, Mac inwardly sighed. A deep seated churning in the pit of his stomach told him to play this particular case very, very close to the vest. Any news of an official investigation would leak to the press and, inevitably to those who bore that particular cross on their arm. No, it was best to keep that particular penciled detail from seeing the light of day until he got a handle on the true severity of the situation. At least until he could have a whole hearted chat with the young lady himself. Unneeded as the cloud of secrecy may turn out to be, something told him to listen to his gut. After all, his instincts were nothing less than finely tuned after years on the force.

The way he had figured things, he could get away with telling Stella upfront that she wouldn't get the whole story right out of the gate. Sure, Stella would hate him for a minute, even protest, offended that Mac, her boss and friend didn't trust her with sensitive information. But he'd apologize for his authority, ultimately putting his foot down, and Stella would drop it there. From years of experience, she had grown to understand the motives behind his actions, even if from time to time they were brash or impulsive. He shuddered at the fleeting memory of Clay Dobson and the way he had handled the situation.

His thoughts quickly back on Stella, he could see the scene playing out in his mind's eye. She'd know that he had a reason for remaining covert, but he could almost hear the tone in her voice when she would warn him that it had better be a damn good one. Hell, if he had asked her sincerely enough, she'd probably help him keep things under wraps without officially knowing why. Most importantly, when it was all said and done, Stella would forgive him first and ask questions later.

Lindsay, on the other hand, would yield to this particular aspect of his authority like a bull yields to a red flag, pushing for further understanding, and butting heads as she did so. She wouldn't take well to a vague explanation, if only because she had been so skilled at dishing them out. To her defense, hers had been a personal issue, but when it affected her work, it became a professional one. To add a little salt to the wound, forgiveness for keeping the young detective out of the entire loop would be harder to come by. At least she had a wicked eye for the minutest of details.

Mac sighed again, less despondent this time. At the end of the day, he had complete faith in each and every member of his team. He simply hoped they would keep that confidence in him.

Turning to Don in a hushed tone, he urged, "Tell me everything you can remember about that day. The raid, everything. From your perspective. Start at the beginning."

_**Note:**__ Many thanks for the reviews! I had forgotten how much fun this was! Updates may be sporadic as my semester is already in full swing, but I urge you to stick along for the ride, for I have grand plans. I'm not a messy writer, so trust me when I ask for your patience. Everything will come together, I promise. I simply need to lay the framework first. Thanks again! It's always nice to know your work is appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

**Lindsay's** hands squeezed the steering wheel in utter frustration. Traffic at 10 on a Sunday night should not have been this taxing, however the sleet had put a cork in the city's taxi flow. She growled openly at the grid-lock paramount to the daily early morning rush hour. It was useless; at this point, she would make better time if she got out and walked, lugging the collected evidence behind her. While waiting for the sea of bright red brake lights to dim before her, Lindsay's thoughts traced back to the circumstances surrounding Trinity's Jane Doe.

By the time she had arrived, Mac had already slipped out with the contents of the victim's pockets in makeshift evidence bags, which consisted of nothing fancier than paper lunch sacs from the cafeteria. He had left Flack behind in his wake, waiting to fill Lindsay in on the case. And now that she thought about it, those particular details had been minimal, at best. A 20ish, petite Caucasian female, had been conscious several hours ago, and they suspected fowl play. That was it. The detective had crossed his heart, even stuck a needle in his eye that they didn't _really_ know anything more. However, his admission was enough to get the wheels greased in the back of Lindsay's mind, especially the way he had enunciated the sentence, emphasizing the word 'really'.

She had chosen to ignore it then, worrying more about processing the poor girl quickly. Collecting evidence from the deceased was one thing she had acclimated to over the years; it came with the territory. But when the subtle rise and fall of a small chest was involved, it would always be more difficult to detach.

But now, banging her head against the steering wheel, while traffic was at a standstill provided the perfect opportunity to ponder what Flack had "really" meant. Hundreds of cases like this happen in the city annually, merely blips on the radar of the NYPD crime lab. The issue eating at Lindsay now, however, was that normally a forensic nurse would be processing the victim, especially in favor of calling in an analyst on an off shift and paying them overtime. She couldn't figure out why the hospital wouldn't have sent her clothes, photos, and kits over to the lab to be processed in the morning, as per usual protocol.

She hated to think of the possibility that Flack would leave something out on purpose. But, if that were the case here, Lucy would have some serious splainin' to do. After all, evidence without context was just fingernail scrapings, fibers and hairs.

Rather than dwell on resident conspiracy theories, she forced her focus back to the road. She had moved a grand total of two blocks. In twenty minutes. Just as she was about to seriously contemplate some of the more obvious ramifications of packing over eight million people in a three hundred some square mile chunk of land, her cell phone rang.

"Tell me why I moved to a place that's 438 times smaller, yet miraculously eight times more populated than my entire home state," she grumbled sourly by way of greeting into the phone.

Covertly both amused and impressed that she had actually gone to the trouble of doing the math, he replied, "Woah now there Montana, am I sensing some nostalgia for rollin' fields of wheat? What now, the city not treatin' ya right?"

She could almost hear him shake his head in mock disgust at the thought, but that wasn't enough to put a smile back on her face. "Damn right cowboy, I could get anywhere faster on horseback at this rate," she continued in a surly tone. Pausing a beat to think better of her attitude, she replied, "I'm sorry Danny. I'm tired, my nerves are shot. I wasn't even on call tonight, yet somehow Mac twisted my arm into coming into work anyway."

In truth, she was secretly elated to hear from him. It had been a while since they last spent any real time together, on the phone or off. Things were looking up.

"Yeah, I know, which is actually why I'm callin'. Mac was concerned when you hadn't shown up here yet."

And things were looking back down again. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment at this particular admission. From her perspective, Mac had been the one worried, not her boyfriend after all. In all honesty, if it weren't for her boss's concern, she probably wouldn't have heard from Danny at all tonight. He'd been incredibly distant lately, after Reuben, and she had all but given up on figuratively reaching him. She wondered now if they'd ever be back on the same page when suddenly it hit her; he had mentioned Mac and 'here', meaning the lab. "Wait, you're working tonight?"

"Yup, looks as though you're not the only sucker in the city, workin' while you coulda been downin' a cold longneck and commiserating over the Giants' pathetic loss. Ah, but Mac wanted me to help analyze the vic's clothing and possessions, and I had nothin' better to do tonight. I'm just waitin' on you before we start puttin' the picture together."

_Nothing better to do_... If she hadn't already been so pissed at the traffic, his flippant remark would have been enough to make her fume. She wasn't angry anymore though, just, exhausted. Tired, and hurt by subtle signs that he was losing interest in their relationship. Trying to hide the prick of pain from her voice, she continued, "I'm not sure when I'll get back, this commute is draining the last bit of resolve I have left."

He could hear the frustration return, and not knowing what brought the second wave on, he asked, "Well, until then, care to fill me in on what you found?" hoping to take some of her mind off the traffic and make the trip more tolerable.

Jumping back into work mode would get her mind off of more than the traffic she mused, and complied almost instantly. "Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Well for starters, what put this gal in the hospital? Mac has left me completely in the dark on this one."

"Strange, Flack didn't have much to offer me either. But for starters, along with a severe cheek fracture, she has a large bruise forming on her back that made an odd impression. It almost looks like a squared cross of sorts. Four spokes radiate out across her back from the center of the injury, and one appears to flare out at the distal end. I'm guessing, it was made by a four way lug wrench maybe, but that would be a funny way to hit someone with it, and it doesn't match the blow to her head. I'm hoping photographs will help clarify things."

"'Kay, go on Montana, I'm followin'," he urged impatiently waiting for more of the story to unfold.

She smirked slightly at his child-like rush. "Patience is a virtue Messer," came a retort, before she continued her now less detailed description. "There are dozens of scrapes all over her, one of her arms looks like it's in bad shape, and a trace of something was taken from one of the deeper wounds. On first glance, it looks like a tiny rock, specifically a piece of asphalt. Which got me thinking..."

"Car accident?" he offered, completing the train of thought.

"Well, the entire picture looks more like what you'd see when a motorcyclist hits the pavement, the way the road tears up flesh. But that theory doesn't fit at all with December." Her mind was racing, now trying to put the pieces together. Suddenly, she had an idea.

Danny saw the light bulb too, blurting out, "Add that with the lug wrench theory, and maybe she hitched a ride in a trunk?"

"More like escaped from a moving one, considering the street tore her up so badly. Trace from her nails seems consistent with rust," she added, sounding far away in thought.

"So someone hits her over the head, figures she's out and tosses her in the trunk of a car. Only she wakes up and somehow finds her way out. From a moving vehicle? How the hell did she manage that?"

"Perhaps this gal's a regular Houdini, Messer." She smirked, before sobering significantly. "Danny, there's more. Our Jane has been hurt before," she admitted somberly, remembering how she first froze in shock, then amazement, while she watched the faded injuries rise toward her with each breath. "I found healed scars on her chest. One's clean, more midline, like a surgical scar. But the other's rough, kind of like an old gunshot wound that has become distorted over the years," she continued coolly, shaking off the vivid memory. Lindsay realized that the girl probably had been just a child, before puberty when she'd been shot at. The stretching of her skin as she matured and the alternate contraction due to scarring would have easily caused the small, but marked distortion on the upper edge of her right breast.

Choosing to let him figure all that out on his own, she changed the subject, adding, "And something else, it was what one of the nurses said. Jane came in already bandaged up, but not by any hospital's standards—no stitches or anything. I'm guessing she was trying to take care of herself."

"Damn, then she probably changed clothes too. That's weird; why not just go to the ER?"

"My thoughts exactly."

"So this kid's been in trouble before, good Monroe. Maybe there's an old case somewhere. I'm gonna go and start lookin' a-," he began, but was cut off with an uncharacteristically small cry from the other end of the line.

"D-Danny," she squeaked, unable to control herself, "wait."

"What is it Lindsay?" he inquired, voice now laden with concern.

She wanted to tell him that she missed him, that things weren't the same. She wanted to say that something had been off, and dare she admit, they needed to talk. But the words just wouldn't come, and she realized now wasn't the time or place. When she didn't respond immediately, he continued, "Did you find something else?"

She chose to fall back on her well worn chicken act and pretend it was the case that was bothering her instead. "Nah, not exactly," brushing it off, she continued, "but there is something about all of this that I can't put a finger on. Maybe I'm just freaked because most of them aren't alive." She admitted, hoping to some higher power that he would dismiss it at that.

"Hey, hard part's over, right?" he offered by way of comfort.

She gulped, her mind considering the possibility that it would be significantly harder to talk to him about their relationship than processes a living, unconscious victim. Rather than answer, she pulled into the lab's parking garage and ended the conversation with a quick, "Well what do you know, this eagle has finally landed."

**The **stack of brown case files on the corner of his desk had remained the same size for much too long now, he mused. The seasoned detective sat back in his seat, recounting the events of last May in his head, adding his own experience to Flack's rendition of the Wilder drug bust. He was hoping for some inadvertent detail to jump out and bite him. However, with nothing immediately taking the bait in his brain, he thumbed the copy of the article from the girl's pocket absently, turning toward the view of New York at night from his office. He had once stated openly that he'd protect three things at all costs—the honor of this country, the safety of this city, and the integrity of his lab. He wondered now, how many people out there have taken an oath rather different from his own.

_One of the thugs, he called me Serpico_. Mac suddenly recalled from Flack's story as he looked back down at the picture of the warehouse in Brooklyn. Finding that detail particularly interesting, he wondered why an Irish mobster would choose that particular reference, about a cop fighting against corruption in the department, unless... His eyes opened wide in sudden realization. Perhaps corruption was ultimately what they were dealing with, without being the wiser. _Dirty cops_, he pondered; the thought certainly didn't make him want to sip champagne and dance the tango. He began to wonder if digging all of this up would inadvertently open a can of worms.

Mac Taylor's gaze fell back to the far corner of his desk, recalling the proverbial snakebite Candace Broadbent had received, as Danny came through the open door, pulling him out of his silent reverie. "You wanted an extra set of hands?"

"Yeah," he replied idly, looking at his watch and suddenly realizing the hour. "Lindsay should be around somewhere, we need to get some answers on this vic from Trinity. You're on clothing and possessions, here," he said, tossing the paper sac over the desk.

The former ball player's instincts didn't miss a beat, catching the evidence with ease. "In a rush? Somethin' I should know?" he toyed lightheartedly, wondering why he was called in to process something that could have waited to see daylight.

Mac dismissed him with the shake of his head, and pointed toward the door. Danny threw his arms up in mock surrender; apparently the atmosphere in the office was cold, with a chance of ice. The older detective watched him comply with the unspoken order, a small spring in his step as he jogged down the hallway in search of his Montana.

As Mac shifted back into his seat again, his eye wafted over that stack of files, the ones that he wouldn't let himself forget. Candace Broadbent's file was still on top, he recalled, and something inside him wondered what more he would know if they had gotten the luxury of meeting for breakfast. She had gotten too close to someone or something; that had been more than evident from day one. But after the cocaine bust, blowing up part of the lab (along with his one solid lead in that particular case), and his trip to London, he had perched Candace back on the corner, waiting for the ability to smoke out that ex member of the IRA, and reveal what she had been digging into. It wasn't a coincidence that she had been killed by someone with ties to one of the most dangerous organized crime families in the city.

And now that pesky tattoo was back again, taunting him.

Picking up the phone and dialing the number of Candace's old partner from the bureau, he silently prayed that his instincts were taking him down the right trail, even if he still didn't know exactly how Jane Doe fit in.


End file.
